


A Dancer's Callus

by KeshaRocks



Category: Final Fantasy VI, Kingdom Hearts (Video Games)
Genre: Belly Dancing, Crime Fighting, Dancing, Depression, Drama & Romance, Emotional Sex, Eventual Romance, Grief/Mourning, Gun Violence, Healing, Healing Sex, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Loss of Faith, Loss of Innocence, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Multi, Partying, Romance, Self-Defense, Self-Esteem Issues, Snipers, sharpshooter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:15:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27483328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeshaRocks/pseuds/KeshaRocks
Summary: Roxas is a high school senior with ambitions of becoming a renowned dancer. Things seem promising as his reputation grows, but when life takes a troubling turn, combined with an alluring spikey-haired red-head, Roxas is soon tangled in a world of love, lies, and deceit. As the pressure begins too weigh on him, will he have the strength and want to keep his dream?





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to go with the Organization's older names since I'm keeping Axel's name the same.

The hum of the speakers turns the studio into a beehive.

The bass reverberates through his bones, the vibration tingling across his skin, into his heart. The chanting of Coach Aqua’s voice matches the rhythm of the song throughout the rectangular space, her hands clapping to the beat.

“One-two, three-four, five-six, seven and a one –”

In the full-length mirrors spanning across the wall, Roxas watches his reflection within the group of dancers around him. Together they move with the organized sound, sweeping their legs into wide fan kicks, pointing their toes, and carefully slowing their bodies into controlled movements.

Sweat coats every inch of his body, gathering at the hollows of his neck and jaw, and the small of his back. The two fans mounted in the opposite corners of the room do little to suppress the moist humidity created by the throng of bodies. His feet burn on the wood floor even with socks, but the built-up callus suppresses the once-familiar pinch.

The five girls in front of him divide and run around towards the back, giving him and two other male dancers room to dip into an illusion, then turn and roll onto the floor into splits and follow the momentum into a backwards roll – all in one smooth, graceful movement. 

Quick to fill the space is Xion and three other female dancers as Roxas and the others huddle into the corner. Roxas smiles through his heavy breathing as he watches her at the forefront of the group.

She always had such a strong stage presence. Her azure blue eyes shine with a spark of mischief, her hair clinging to her sweaty neck. Quiet and mild, but an exhibitionist at heart. On the dance floor, she shines.

Roxas places his hands on his hips, steadying his breathing as the song finishes, Xion and the three other girls finishing the routine with individual poses. Roxas and the rest of the class applaud and cheer, Coach Aqua smiling ear to ear.

“Alright, great job guys! We’ll wrap it up with that.”

Roxas walks over to his gym bag, stuffed with the clothes he wore earlier in the day, as well as a water bottle he so desperately wants right now. But it would seem that Coach Aqua isn’t done yet.

“Don’t forget, for the couples who will be competing in the duo competition, be back here Friday after school!” she calls, earning a few groans of protests, but an overall thumbs up.

As Roxas digs through his bag for that blessed water bottle, Xion approaches from behind, fanning herself with one hand. “Yeah, just how I want to spend my Friday nights.” She says quietly.

Roxas looks over his shoulder and finds Aqua packing her things as well, unplugging her music player from the sound system. He grins with mischief. “You’re more than welcome to tell her you can’t do it.”

Xion flicks the side of his head with a giggle. “Very funny. Besides, I’d be doing you a disservice. Can’t imagine how many of these other girls would kill to be your partner.”

“I’m flattered.” He says flatly, but his grin is unfaltering. She doesn’t need to mention how said girls only want to be his partner because he’s won every duo competition he’s ever participated in . . . and because he’s Aqua’s favorite.

Having been dancing since a young age – and Aqua being a long-time friend of the family – Roxas easily outshined the other students by the time he got into high school. He would dance at Aqua’s studio for weekend classes, and slowly it became his passion and dream. And when she was hired at his high school, Roxas was the first to sign up for the dance team.

Though, no one needs to know how close they are. Except Xion, and his friends. She doesn’t treat him any different than the others, doesn’t work him any less – not that she could. Roxas does a good enough job running himself into the ground.

God, he’s sweating like crazy now. Where is that god damn – Oh, there it is, tucked into the corner of his bag thanks to his shoes and sweatpants with the logo, TTH, written on the left leg for Twilight Town High. He fishes it out and wastes no time chugging half of the bottle before even taking a breath.

While Xion takes a swig from her own, Roxas stands and leans against the wall, wiping his forehead with the hemline of his shirt. A few girls wave goodbye to him with charming chirps, of which he returns, and a couple of the guys giving not-so-discreet glares before walking out to which he pays no heed. Xion does, however; giving a small sneer.

Once they leave, she looks back to him and asks, “You coming to the Bistrot tonight? It’s Hayner’s treat.”

Roxas shrugs as he finishes the last of his water. “I don’t know. I promised my dad I’d be home.”

“For what?”

“We’re going to the shooting range tonight.” He digs through his gym bag again and finds his phone. Clicking the home button, he doesn’t find any messages from his parents – only a few notifications from MoogleTube.

“What?” Xion exclaims. “This late?”

Roxas chuckles. “I admit, it’s better than having to train.”

“Right, I forget he does that.” Xion briefly pauses before saying, “I hope you at least tell him when you’ve had enough. It seems like he pushes you around a lot.”

Another breath of a laugh. “My mom would agree.”

He stuffs the phone in his pocket and tosses the empty bottle back into his gym bag. A zipper sounds across the studio, indicating Aqua has finished packing her things too. Roxas zips his own and hoists it onto his shoulder. Xion follows, tucking her bottle into the net pocket on its outside.

“It can be rough sometimes, but I know he means well. He’s been training me since I was this high.” He levels his hand to his hip. “He just wants to make sure I’ll always be able to protect myself.”

Roxas never failed to walk through the motions his father had taught him since childhood: assembling a gun, taking aim, controlling his breathing. Though still heavily regulated by the town – even after a sharp growth in nightly crime –

with his father’s many badges, he’s allowed a few exceptions here and there. The community, at least, is growing larger and louder. And since Roxas doesn’t have much to defend himself save for a few well-placed maneuvers, he hopes one day to be allowed to carry.

They spare a quick wave to Aqua before leaving the studio and into the school’s cool hallway. Already half of the lights are out, the only sound being the tinkling of the janitor’s keys down the opposite end. Roxas always through the orange colored lockers were a bit ugly, but considering they go well with the school’s – and the town’s – aesthetic, it matches well with the rest of the school’s colors of dandelion yellow and terra-cotta brown.

However, the one thing he won’t ever get past is their school’s mascot – the Twilight Town Bells. Named after the ancient clock tower that sits atop the train station overlooking the entire city, it seemed meaningful at first, given it’s the town’s oldest monument. Unfortunately, it didn’t translate well with the school’s sports teams, or the cheerleader’s team chant . . .

“ _The beautiful bells have arrived_ ,” some rival schools would say. And Roxas himself laughed when the cheerleaders tried their best to make a chant that associated with their mascot. “ _Ring-a-ding-ding! The Bells have come to gleam and sting_!”

It was embarrassing. At least the dance team didn’t have much of a name, they’ve never needed one.

Xion pulls out her own phone and Roxas chuckles at the cute stickers decorating her case. “I can get behind keeping you safe,” she continues, “but your seventeen now. Haven’t you’ve learned _enough_?”

Another shrug of his shoulders. “He doesn’t want me to get rusty. And besides, he may have taught me everything I know, but he hasn’t taught me everything _he_ knows.”

He doesn’t need to tell her how it was also his dad’s way of compromising Roxas’ want to become a dancer. Though his dad wasn’t initially thrilled, he knew of the harassment his son would get among his peers, so he used that as a reason to teach Roxas how to fight. Guess that’s to be expected when being the son of a veteran.

But he would’ve said yes to his father anyway – learning how to fight is essential, and Roxas even put in the time to teach Olette and Xion a few moves; just enough to give them time to run, and god forbid even that happens.

Though Roxas did initially receive some passing laughs and snarky comments – primarily among the jocks of the school, including his group’s long-time rival Seifer – it isn’t nearly as bad as either of them thought. Probably because most of the girls at school _loved_ Roxas, and both dancing and his father’s training keeps him in peak condition.

He only ever got into one fight at school, and it was with Seifer – and it didn’t end well for the latter.

Seifer has since branded a scar between his eyes, and no one else has since decided to mess with Roxas. And Seifer has instead turned his attention to Hayner – though that hasn’t stopped him from sneering and spitting names at the dancer from time to time.

Despite his mother’s initial anger, his father just clapped a hand on his shoulder and told him, “Good job.”

Roxas rarely lets the opinions of others – especially Seifer – eat away at his swagger and joy, but on some rough days . . .

They push through another set of double doors into the school’s south entrance and parking lot. Roxas sighs as the cool autumn air brushes his heated skin. He digs through his gym bag and throws on his worn leather motorcycle jacket while Xion pulls on a sweater. The border of the school’s courtyard to the parking lot is divided by black wrought-iron gates that slide closed every night to deter thieves.

“You deserve a break, Roxas. You work so hard almost every day it’s like you never have time for yourself.” Xion says.

Well, he can’t argue with her there. The hours he does have for himself are very slim . . . in turn, it’s what he treasure’s the most. That slim amount of time before bed where he can watch whatever videos he wants on his laptop, and snack on whatever food he wants because his parents are already in bed.

Roxas never hated his parents for it, though; they told him he had a lot of energy when he was little, they just needed proper ways to exert it. Not to mention that if they didn’t encourage him and pressure him to keep his grades up and stay out of trouble, he wouldn’t have a full-tuition scholarship for any school of his choosing. 

It was one of the few times his father told him he was proud. It never matted much, Roxas was just happy his father accepted his dream at all – most would slap their sons upside the head for wanting to be a dancer, at least not when it wasn’t obvious in regard to their sexuality.

Roxas himself never really put much thought into it – he usually looked to the girls at his school, even taking one of the cheerleaders to homecoming.

His dad told him he’d have some big test ready for him the day Roxas goes to college. He’d told his parents in advance he’ll likely live on campus, and that’s when his father first mentioned it. Roxas has an idea of what it might be, and it still turns his stomach every time he thinks about it.

“What time are you guys going to the range?” she asks. They pause just past the gates, the parking lot to their left looking a little spooky with only the lights on and a few cars of staff working late.

“Uh, he’s usually off work by five. So probably after.”

She hums and taps her foot. “Well, you might be able to make it. Olette is off work by six.”

“Maybe,” he says with a nod.

“You want a ride home?” Xion asks, jabbing a thumb over her shoulder.

He follows her gaze to find her mom’s black sedan parked sloppily in a spot, a shadow waving from behind the glass.

Roxas waves back but says, “Nah, I think I’ll just catch a trolley.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I need to pick some stuff up for my mom anyway.”

A half-truth. No need to mention how Xion’s mother is a very bad driver. Xion waves goodbye, but Roxas waits until she’s in the car before turning and heading down the street, aiming for the left corner. As he scans the street and his surroundings, Roxas fishes out his phone from his pocket, texting his parents he’s taking a trolley and should be home shortly.

His phone buzzes less than a minute later from his mom. _Be safe love. See you when you get home_.

He surveys the street ahead, glancing past a poster announcing the town’s annual Struggle tournament – of which Setzer is the reining champion once more, due to Roxas withdrawing in an attempt to clear his schedule a _little_ bit. Having four of his seven days filled with dance practice is bad enough, he doesn’t need to add Struggle training to that list. At least the host said he can rejoin whenever he feels like it. From the way he made it sound, he’ll likely just _give_ Roxas the belt back.

A walk from his school to a trolley station is less than fifteen, but with this chilling breeze, Roxas arrives in ten. Not much traffic at this hour in Tram Common, but even with the lone elderly woman sitting on the bench, Roxas still chooses stands outside the plexiglass barrier, plugging his music in his ears.

He allows himself to close his eyes for a brief moment as the lovely sounds flood his ears, the bass thumping through his skull, the guitar strings sliding up his spine, his toe tapping to the rhythm.

God, he’s always loved music!

From the pop songs that get blasted too often on the radio, to the sweeping orchestral music of the town’s orchestra. Music always had a way of moving him – forcing him to do _something_. He still laughs at himself at the memories of him moving erratically around the many rooms of his family’s townhome. And then when they introduced him to dance, took him to Aqua’s studio upon his mother’s request, it was Roxas finally settled into his skin.

The way Aqua was able to help channel his energy into a routine that not only exhausted yet expressed him but helped him look graceful and powerful. Music just infects him, and suddenly all his problems in the world are cleared away just for those few minutes.

The trolley arrives and Roxas boards and aims for his usual spot: a single seat poised by the window at the back-left corner. He never wants to sit next to anyone – just leave him be with his music. He drops his bag onto the floor, looping the handle around his ankle so no one has the chance to swipe it from him while he naps.

The bell sounds – Roxas not ever knowing if it’s an actual bell or some audio clip – and the trolley leaves the stop, slowly starting to follow along the tracks. He counts the number of stops before he reaches Market Street.

It’s just enough for him to close his eyes and enjoy a little time to himself before having his ears fill with the sound of gunshots in another hour.

Leaning his head back as the song shifts into a lovely orchestral piece from one of his favorite movies, Roxas closes his eyes and smiles.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time he gets home, the smell of dinner has seeped through the round, ornately carved mahogany door and into the antechamber of the townhouse.

The light from outside and inside streams through the frosted glass windows flanking both doors, setting the small space into a kaleidoscope of rainbow-colored shards. Shutting the actual front door behind him, Roxas wipes his feet on the mat before slipping them off and tossing them onto the boot tray.

He hangs his jacket on the rack tucked in the corner, having to nudge aside his dad’s thick canvas jacket to make room. They’re going to have to move them inside soon, with autumn swiftly turning into winter. In the summer, his Mom always makes him and his father leave their stuff here to air out, not wanting it to stink up the house.

Roxas smiles as he grasps the cold knob and pushes the inner door open. The heat brushes along his skin like a gentleness of flower petals.

“I’m home!” he announces.

Off from the other rooms, both his parents respond in loving unison. “Hey.” “Hi honey!”

The decorative green runner cushions his feet as he steps inside, stretching down the slender hallway – with a few more doors here and there – leading into the kitchen. One of many rugs that break up the deep, polished oakwood floor that gleams from the crystal chandelier hanging above. The wood seeps into the thresholds of each doorway and into the straight staircase leading upstairs.

On his left is a sitting room with a stone fireplace flanked by bookshelves built into the wall, and lots of comfortable, elegant, but worn furniture surrounding a reclaimed wood coffee table. On his right: a dining room with a long, cherrywood table big enough for ten people with matching, high-backed chairs. Through an archway is the family room, where his dad is likely watching TV.

When first buying the house, his mother spared no expense: the warm, sand colored walls, the artwork, the potted plants. Yet she had managed to make this place seem cozy. All of it impeccably clean and soft and welcoming – a home. Even the formal furniture, while beautiful, is designed for comfort and lounging, for long conversations over good food.

Said good food is being made in the kitchen right now – Roxas dropping his backpack and gym bag by the stairs as he walks down the hall. As he passes the small door leading to an even smaller storage area beneath the stairs, the wall opens up again, and indeed the massive TV bracketed to the wall is alight with an epic, cinematic chase scene. His father having been swallowed by the deep-cushioned couch, only the top of his bald head is visible.

“You’re home early,” Roxas chirps as he approaches the back of the couch.

His dad lifts a fisted hand to him, of which Roxas bumps with his own as his Dad grins, “Well that’s the beauty of being a college English teacher. I get to say when class ends, and none of the kids give enough of a shit to argue.”

Roxas chuckles as the kitchen radiates the sound of clinking pans and closing cabinets. “We still on for tonight?”

“Yeah, yeah, just make sure you eat some of your Mom’s cooking.” He angles his head towards the entrance to the kitchen and says in a louder voice. “Lord knows how long she’s been slaving over that hot stove making us such a delicious meal!”

“ _Damn straight_!” was the reply.

His father’s grin grows.

A quick pat on the shoulder and Roxas pads into the kitchen. The mixing smells of spice and pasta and beef and garlic is enough to deter him from going to the Bistrot. His Mom is stirring a lump of mixed vegetables in a large pan when Roxas pecks her on the cheek. With three of the four burners in use, the kitchen is much warmer than the rest of the house.

“Hi honey. How was your day?” she chimes. Her blonde hair, which usually hangs to her shoulders, is pulled back into a messy bun; her sleeves yanked up to her elbows.

Roxas folds his arms, leaning a hip against the edge of the counter. “Ah, same old. But, I just got reminded that I have another practice this Friday.”

Without turning back, his mother chuckles, “I’m aware. I have it marked on the calendar for a reason. Anything new with school?”

A shrug of his shoulders. “Just more preparation for finals. Anything come in the mail today?”

“No sweetie, not yet. And stop stressing yourself over that! You only applied to college two days ago. And still have many more to apply to; give yourself options.”

Roxas grins, snatching a piece of bell pepper from the pan before his mom could whack him with the wooden spoon. She gives a small sound of disproval, pursing her lips as she continues to stir. He just smiles as he turns and tugs open the fridge, grabbing a water for himself.

His Mom’s elegant taste continues into the kitchen with its white cabinets, chrome appliances, and black granite counters.

“What, are you so excited to leave me and your father?” his mother jokingly snipes as she switches utensils, dipping it into a stock pot steaming with pasta.

His grin widens as he nestles into one of the two bar chairs posted at the island in the center of the room. “Come on, you know your cooking’s one in a million.”

“Which is how I plan to get you visit home, often.” She says pointing at him with the spoon.

“It was just my first time applying for a college. Sorry for being eager.”

His Mom turns around, dumping the contents of the steaming pan into the large wok bubbling with juicy meat. “Well if you ask me, you shouldn’t have made Traverse Town your first choice. There are plenty of other schools out there with the same opportunities.”

“It’s been my first choice since you and dad took me on that campus tour. I thought you guys liked the campus.”

“We do honey.” He notes how she places the pan down a bit loudly.

Roxas crosses his arms, resting his elbows on the counter. “Buuuuuut . . .” he drawls.”

She turns to face him again, flattening her palms wide on the counter. “We have the money for both you and Ventus.”

Roxas winces, tearing his gaze away from his mother to study the bruising fruit in the lopsided ceramic bowl before him. Something Ventus half-assed during an art class sophomore year. “I don’t want to take your money, Mom. You and Dad should put it towards your retirement. Scholarships can get me by just fine.”

His mother clicks her tongue in disproval. She walks around the island to him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. He wraps one arm around her waist, leaning his head against her chest – a motion he remembers from when he was young. “I’m just worried that you’re working yourself _too_ _hard_ , honey. We have the funds to send you and your brother to school and beyond.”

He looks up to her, into the stunning sapphire blue eyes – his eyes – whose shine never faded even as she aged. Unlike her hair – a stunning sunshine-gold now faded into a gentle primrose.

He and his brother did inherit their mother’s looks, leaving their father’s personality. Maybe that means they won’t go bald when they’re older.

“You and Dad always taught not to be afraid of hard work.”

His mother sighs. “We raised both well; _too_ well – apparently. Just, remember that our offer still stands. I mean, we are parents, and parents always want better for their kids.”

“If we raised them by that rule, they’d be no different than that Seifer kid.” His dad chimes as he saunters into the kitchen. “Expecting everything to come to them on a silver platter, and no respect for others. Just like all the lawyers of the world.”

His mother rolls her eyes before planting a kiss on Roxas’ head. She pats his shoulder. “Remember, it’ll be there if you change your mind.”

With a nod of his head, Roxas changes the subject. “Where’s Ventus?”

His mother peels herself from him and walks back towards the stove, stirring the pasta again, as well as smacking his father’s hand away. “He’s upstairs in the study doing his homework. Which, thank you for reminding me: get him and tell him to come down for dinner.” Suddenly she whirls around. “And _you_ stop eating the pasta!”

Roxas smiles as he leaves his parents, treading back down the hall and snatching his bags up as he heads upstairs. His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he fishes it out. He smiles when he sees it’s from Pence. He minds his feet up the stairs as he reads: _I finally get Hayner to pay for a night out, and you’re not coming?! Do you know how many rounds of_ Jungle Slider _I had to play to make this happen?!_

Chuckling as he reaches the landing, he swings himself around the banister post and aims for his bedroom. He counts the other rooms along the way: the storage closet at the top of the stairs, his parents’ bedroom, the bathroom he and Ventus shared – since his parents have their own – Ventus’ bedroom, the study, and finally his room at the opposite end of the hall.

He sees the warm buttery glow leaking through the crack in the door, and as he passes, he can see his twin brother sitting inside. He lazily tosses his bags into his room before turning and knocking on the study door. He pushes the door open as his brother says, “Come in.”

Perched on the couch, clad in his favorite graphic T-shirt and black sweatpants, sits Ventus. Sprawled before him are several papers, folders, and notebooks on the coffee table while he scribbles on his tablet in his lap.

Upon hearing the door open, Ventus looks up and spares his brother a brief smile before returning to his work.

Roxas huffs with a smile. “Nice to see you too.”

Ventus only gives another smile, if a bit strained.

The study opens into a small balcony overlooking the city, the space warm and merry and rich, and Roxas personally loves the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the plush thundercloud grey furniture before the pale wood fireplace.

There’s a little trill that comes from his left, and Roxas looks down to find Chirithy poised on the couch like a loaf of bread. The grey cat stretches long as she approaches him, her body lined with black stripes. She chirps again, Roxas sparing a smiles as he scratches her velvet soft ears.

He breezes past his twin, plopping himself down into armchair by the vacant fireplace. “Mom said to come down for dinner.”

A slight dip of his chin, not even looking up from his tablet. “Okay. I’ll be down there in a few.”

Roxas taps a callused finger on the rolled arm of the chair. “So, how was your day?”

Ventus shrugs his shoulders, still not looking up from his tablet. Peering past the glare, Roxas can see a tangled mesh of equations and letters and diagrams that he never understood, but somehow his brother could read and understand as easy as a children’s book. He always did admire him for that. Roxas was lucky to pass some of his math classes with a C at best.

“Dad and I are going to the range later, if you want to come.”

“I can’t. I have to study.” Pure dismissal.

Roxas’ brows narrow. “You can afford one day away from that thing.”

“Like you can afford to miss a day of practice?”

Roxas stiffens, trying to even his breathing. They can’t do this now.

And yet –

“I’m just offering an invitation to spend time with us. What the hell is your problem?”

That makes Ventus thump his hand on his lap, causing Chirithy to jump down from the couch. Her little star-shaped charm on her collar jingles as she meanders around the study for another spot.

Finally, Ventus looks to him. “My problem is that I have an important physics test to study for, and my dancing twin brother is bothering me.”

Roxas refuses to blink as he stares. A mirror to his own; the eyes they shared with their mother, minus the bright ring of gold Roxas has around his pupil.

He, and he alone.

Where Ventus is like a churning sea, Roxas is like wildfire. At least, that’s what their mother had said. A tribute from their father’s temper.

“Excuse me for trying to include you.”

“And what, pray tell, brought on this nice gesture?” Ventus says crossing his arms – arms that hid tremendous strength, as near ferocious as his own – and gives Roxas a look.

“Kindness. Consideration. What brought on _this_ shitty attitude?” Roxas says with a flourishing hand.

Ventus just stares at him, and then that churning rage seems to soothe. “You know what.”

Roxas’ shoulders sag, and he thumps his head against the back of the chair. “Mom told you about the money again?”

“She’s always tells me about the money.” Ventus murmurs, those eyes falling down, but looking at the tablet.

Roxas adjusts to sit cross-legged in the armchair. Chirithy sees her opening and hops into his lap. “Look, Ventus, I really think you should take it.”

His twin scoffs, leaning back into the couch. “You don’t think I want to?”

“Well, why don’t you?”

“Because _you_ had to be the ever-gallant-knight and say no, now I’m left with the dilemma of taking it or not.”

Roxas frowns. “It was _my_ choice; I never expected you to follow. Why do you think I’m working to get scholarships?”

Ventus gives a cold chuckle, shaking his head. “And how do you think that’ll make me look? My brother works hard for scholarships while I just have my parents sign a check. They’ll just look at me like some privileged snob.”

“Who is going to think that?” Roxas says slowly, digging deep to try and bury his fury. “We would never see you that way.” Chirithy shifts uncomfortably in his lap.

Another shake of brother’s head. “Do you know how many people would _kill_ to have their parents say: _You can apply for any school across the country, across the_ world _, and I will pay for all of it_.”

“I don’t want our parents’ money. I personally think they deserve it for themselves. They should spend it on whatever they want.”

“And they _want_ to spend it on _us_!”

Roxas shakes his head with a roll of his eyes. “I don’t get why you’re making a big deal out of this. Ever think maybe I turned it down because I thought the money would be better suited going to you.” A coil of rage grows in his stomach. “After all, physics will get you places faster than any dance routine.” He spits.

Ventus exhales stiffly. He looks to Roxas, and the latter holds his brother’s stare. Unlike their father, Ventus never really approved of Roxas’ career choice to be a dancer. He tolerates it at best. When they were young, it never really mattered, but in junior high when Roxas had told Ventus he’s going to pursue the art, Ventus slapped him across the face – as if to smack the crazy out of him.

His heart still aches, and still remembers the hurt and, betrayal, that etched across his brother’s delicate features.

When they were young, the twins had made a promise to stick together – to do everything together. From playing on the playground, to joining the same classes, and doing the same after school activities. And it would seem Roxas’ choice in dance shot that horse in the face.

Unlike Roxas, Ventus is shy. More of an introvert compared to Roxas who can fit on either side of the scale. Though he exceeds in gym, he never really joined any sports – his strength filling more in brains than brawn. Still, their father made sure to teach them both everything the know about self-defense. Even if Ventus’ arm looks rather slim, it’s rock hard with muscle.

Roxas has tried to invite Ventus to come to the gym with him, but the twin always refused. His face either buried in a book or plastered to the glowing screen of his tablet.

“Please,” Ventus seethes, “at this point, Mom and Dad would just give you the money.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re they’re favorite. You’ve always been.”

“That is _not_ true, Ventus.” Roxas snaps with a pointed glare. His tone is laced with such a heavy growl that Chirithy rises from her seat, a distinct line going down her slightly arched back. “They don’t love me or treat me any different than you.”

Ventus snorts. “Right, because when you wanted to be a dancer, it was celebrated and revered. I talk about wanting to go in graphic design and I get scolded.”

“When did that ever happen?”

Ignoring his question, Ventus adds in a murmur, “All because I was too weak to beat the shit out of our father.”

In an instant, Roxas’ anger vanishes. His brows loosen and furrow, relaxing back into his seat.

Ventus clicks the stylus pencil to the side of the tablet before tossing it across the couch cushions. He folds his legs beneath him and sighs into his hands. He rakes his fingers through his hair, silver starting to line his eyes.

Roxas attempts to look for something to say. Anything to ease that suffocating strain in his brother’s heart. But what difference will it make? It can’t change the past; it might not even light the future.

Roxas fists his hands as his knuckles begin to ache with the phantom pain of when he bashed them into his father’s nose.

Again and again and again.

He remembers that day – they _both_ remember the day they had to earn their dreams.

Roxas can still feel the blood – his father’s blood – that stained his hands, that splattered onto his shirt. Still feel the air leave his father’s lungs as Roxas wrapped his arm around his father’s neck.

Still hear the sirens of the ambulance that took his father to the hospital for a broken nose and two broken ribs.

Even after that day, no matter how many times Roxas washed his hands, he could still feel the stickiness of the blood, thinking it had seeped so far into his skin that no amount of soap and water can wash it away.

It still sickens him to know that he got off easy.

But Ventus –

Ventus . . .

Roxas stands from the chair with a sigh, spilling poor Chirithy to the floor. He attempts to say something, opening his mouth, then clamping it shut. Opening it and clamping it down like a fish out of water.

He doesn’t have to when their father’s voice calls from the bottom of the steps, “Boys! Come get some dinner!”

Roxas tries not to notice the way his brother flinches at the way their father’s voice booms around the house – one of the many signs he served in the military.

Sparing his brother the effort, Roxas takes three strides towards the door, yanking it open. He calls from the doorway, “We’re coming! Got caught up talking.”

“Alrighty. Better hurry so we can make it to the range.”

“Gotcha!”

When he hears their father’s steps go back into the kitchen, Roxas leans a shoulder against the threshold. “We should go.”

“Yeah.” Is all Ventus mutters.

A heartbeat of silence. Roxas glances over his shoulder. “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.”

“Easy for you to say.”

More silence. After a moment, Roxas leans back and places his hand on Ventus’ shoulder.

To his surprise, Ventus allows the intimate touch. “You might think it’s because you were too weak to do it.” His brother’s shoulders curve inward, but Roxas adds, “But maybe it’s because you’re strong enough not to.”

Ventus stiffens, still not looking back towards him.

But as Roxas lets his fingers slip from his brother’s shoulder, he felt just the briefest brush of Ventu’s against his own.

Taking a steadying breath, Roxas mutters, “Love you,” before leaving the study.

From behind his ears catch what sounded like, “You too.”

Making it back to his room, Roxas closes the door behind him, sliding down to the floor. He sighs into his hands, ignoring the Chirithy’s meowing from the other side.

What Ventus might never understand is the envy Roxas will forever hold to his brother.

The envy for refusing to play their father’s game. To stay true to who he is, unwilling to sacrifice it for the sake of a dream.

Their father called it a lack of passion, but Roxas has never felt as whole as Ventus. Not since he had to watch doctors operate on his father for the damage that he’d done.

He channeled his ‘passion’ for that dream into that fight.

But in the end, he ended up losing something he might ever be able to get back.

His knuckles begin to ache again.

And every waking moment since that day, Roxas has always had this little but terrifying thought hidden away at the back of his mind. A horrible, haunting voice that lilts between the dark emptiness of his thoughts

 _Was it really worth it_?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to go with the Organization's older names since I'm keeping Axel's name the same.

Roxas was more than happy to shift his thoughts to something else as he and his dad set their converted guitar cases on the padded counters of their lanes. The only thing dividing them from the twenty-five-yard shooting range stretching ahead of him. The first foot ahead of him is littered with hundreds of discarded shells from previous customers.

Going in numerical order, Roxas sets himself up on Lane 2, while his Dad is on Lane 3. Head and eye gear already in place, he flips open the case and pulls out the two magazines. As he’s loading in the ammunition, there’s a knock on the glass half of the dividers separating the lanes. The outer most is made out of a durable plexiglass while the inner half is lined with soft yet durable rubber foam.

Roxas looks and finds his Dad peeking at him, gesturing with a thumbs up and a nod of his head. The young dancer adjusts his hearing and eye protection and nods, returning the gesture with a roll of his eyes and a smile.

At this hour, the range is pretty dead despite it being a Wednesday evening. The only other people here are two older men – looking to be in their mid-twenties – down at the other end of the range. Their hair color makes them stand out distinctly.

One bearing long, opaque cornflower-blue hair, though slicked back, still frays in wild spikes at the top before reaching down towards the middle of his back. His eyes of blue zircon are nothing short of stunning; unfortunately they also bring to attention the nasty, jagged scar that forms an X right at the bridge of his nose. The tracksuit attire is near painted on it’s so fitted, emphasizing his board shoulders and thighs as he aims down the sights of his rifle.

The other . . . a widow's peak leads into thick, shoulder-length, bright red hair styled into slicked-back spikes. A cleaner look, even if it reminded Roxas of a porcupine. Though he appears lither in form, Roxas had a feeling that beneath that grey crewneck sweater are some powerful arms – if the strain of the sleeves is any indication as he crosses his arms. The denim of his long legs ends in short black leather boots.

He leans against the glass of the lane, hands tucked into pockets. God damn his cheekbones are unreal. So are those emerald green eyes, now narrowing in amusement at Roxas.

The young dancer holds the man’s gaze, longer than some would deem wise. He looks down his nose at the man, raising a brow. There aren’t many assholes at the range – most of the clientele belonging to retired veterans, seasonal hunters, or active police officers. However, there are still those that come in; a combination of teenagers who just turned eighteen and who think they suddenly have access to their fathers’ firearms, and adults in their early to mid-twenties whose brain still hasn’t matured.

Much like the red-headed porcupine. And the wink he gives only confirms Roxas’ assumptions.

Roxas surveys him with a cool, mocking indifference. Then the man’s friend calls his attention, forcing him to look away. A little victory for Roxas, in its own right.

With that, Roxas sets the now-loaded magazines on the counter and pulls the rifle from its padding. The matte black design almost blends it in with the padding. The long barrel allows for accuracy, but the red-dot scope mounted on top helps too.

A shot rings out next to him. Roxas looks downrange and finds the paper target still swaying from where his Dad just shot it in the head. Maybe he noticed the man staring too.

No one would dare be stupid enough to try and start something at a shooting range. Not only with the Range Safety Officer constantly patrolling – who is also armed – but also because there are certain men, like his father, who won’t hesitate to put one between the eyes if someone decides to act stupid.

With only an hour to rent their lanes, Roxas and his father waste no time getting their money’s worth. The different paper targets they bought provide fun entertainment of who can land the better shot. There’s one with playing cards, one of cartoon gophers, the standard cutout of a man. All blown through in a matter of minutes. The two of them switch between lanes to try the other’s gun – and taking the time to reload the other’s magazine. _Standard range etiquette_ , his Dad joked.

Unfortunately, their ‘bonding/relaxation time’ doesn’t last long, because as Roxas is loading his final magazine of the night, his gun set on the counter, pointing downrange, he hears the Safety Officer conversing with the two alleged assholes. It’s a chipper conversation filled with set farewells, but that also means they’re going to be coming by him and his Dad since the exit is right behind them.

Roxas isn’t intimidated by any means, he’s just waiting for the idiots to start something, and then they’ll either face off against him, or his father. Personally, Roxas would love to see his dad wipe the floor with these kids. They may be a few years older than him, but Roxas outweighs them in maturity – and possibly intelligence.

Sure enough, as the two men approach, their rifle bags in one hand, the red-headed porcupine nod to Roxas’ father after he shoots another three rounds. “Got to start them young, huh?”

His Dad looks to the red-headed porcupine and spares a grin. “Started him way younger than that. Got to get them at that impressionable age.”

Roxas spares a pinched smile as the men laugh, placing his hand on the stock of the rifle. He resists the urge to roll his eyes as the man leans against the edge of the glass, indicating this could be a long conversation. The thin line of his friend’s mouth seems to indicate the same irk.

The red head extends his hand. “Axel.”

His father takes it, but instead of giving his name, he only says, “Nice to meet you.”

A fair indication that neither he nor Roxas care who he is and doesn’t really want conversation. Once they’re past the pleasantries, it’ll be nothing short of telling the man to ‘Fuck off.’

“You’ve already got him on rifles?” Axel asks with a jerk of his chin.

Roxas’ father shrugs. “He handled pistols pretty well as a kid.”

“I purchased my own rifle by the time I was sixteen.” Roxas interjects, his tone sharp.

Axel’s eyebrows lift. “Really?” He drawls. “Impressive. You never thought you were too young to handle a gun like that?”

“My father taught me everything I need to know to understand it. So, there was no room for fear.”

“You must be a pretty decent shot.” Axel says crossing his arms.

“What’s it to you?” Roxas suddenly jabs, earning a look from his father. Not the typical ‘Knock it off,’ glare, but more of a ‘Don’t start anything’ kind of look.

“You just don’t seem like the kind of person who could shoot.”

“And you don’t seem like the kind of person who still shops in the Junior’s Section.”

“Roxas,” his father warns.

That draws a snort from the man’s long-haired friend. Now Roxas’ father is stepping closer to him, a casual gait to put himself between Axel and his son.

But still Axel has that taunting smirk on his lips. “You’re a firebrand, aren’t you? Think you can back up such big talk?

“I can, and I don’t need a big gun to do it.”

“Color me intrigued.” Axel says as he sidles up Roxas at the counter. Roxas could see his father tensing, and the imperious look that the dancer gives the red head only seems to make his grin grow wider. “I’ve got fifty bucks that says you can’t hit that spade on the card target.”

“Only rich pieces of shit have money like that to blow on bullshit contests.” Roxas says, his eyes dancing with amusement. But his gaze drifts to the distant target.

He looks to his father, who only gives a nod.

Roxas snaps his hearing protection over his ears.

Axel lays the fifty-dollar bill on the counter, and Roxas puts on the protection glasses. Pressing the button, Roxas sends the target all the way down at the end of the range, the bull’s-eye at its center nothing more than a neon green dot. He hefts the rifle into his hands, weighing it in his arms.

“Here we go,” the long-haired – and seemingly wiser – friend mutters.

Roxas fits the gun to his shoulder, each movement as comfortable as anything when raised by a legendary sharpshooter. He clicks off the safety and doesn’t bother using the scope ass he says to Axel in particular. “Allow me to demonstrate why you can kiss my ass, Axel.”

Three shots crack out cross the range, one after another, his body absorbing the recoil like his father taught him. The piece of paper sways, the target rippling.

They all peer out at the target as Roxas merely checks the chamber to make sure it’s empty and places the rifle on the counter.

“You only landed one,” Axel snorts, eyeing the hole through the heart of the target.

“No, he didn’t.” His friend murmurs.

Axel looks back and pouts at him, Roxas’ father pushing his way past the porcupine with his shoulder, forcing Axel to step out of the lane. His father doesn’t say anything as he presses the button to bring the target in, the machine humming as it draws the paper target closer and closer.

Once it’s jerks to a stop at the forefront of the lane – near smacking Axel in the head – both of the men lift their brows in awe.

The circle isn’t perfect. Two of its edges bulge outward – barely noticeable.

Three shots, so precise that they passed through the same small space.

Roxas could feel the chill skitter down the men’s spines. No one said anything – no one could say anything as Roxas’ father adjusts his own hearing and eye protection before taking up the rifle the dancer had set down. He presses the button, sending the target back out towards the very end of the range.

In one smooth motion, his father places a single bullet in the chamber, and lines up his shot.

He clicks off the safety.

The crack of the gun reverberates around them like a thunderclap. With his still-eagle-sharp vision, his father doesn’t need the scope to see the bullet pass through the hole Roxas had made.

Roxas didn’t hear what either of the men were saying, and neither did his father. Though, both didn’t really care.

His father just sets the rifle back down onto the counter, removes his hearing and eye protection and just looks Axel dead in the eyes as he says, “He gets it from my side of the family.”

A quiet sort of light shines in the eyes of the men. A realization of who stands in their presence – not an average father and his son enjoying some family bonding.

But a decorated sniper veteran, who has taught his son everything he knows about combat – and killing.

“I think we’ve wasted enough of your time.” The friend says as he grabs Axel by the shoulders. “It was nice meeting you.”

He doesn’t give Axel time to retort – or snatch up his fifty dollars – before he’s shoving the porcupine through the exit.

As Roxas waves them off while stuffing the bill into his wallet, his father suddenly flicks the side of his temple. “Ow. What was that for?”

Thought his father’s eyes shine, his expression promises punishment. “What did I tell you from the very beginning?”

Roxas gives a roll of his eyes despite the gravity rippling in his father’s hazel eyes. “No fight is the best fight. But you can agree that guy needed someone to shut him up.”

“I _can_ agree, but that doesn’t mean it was worth it.”

“The fifty dollars in my wallet say otherwise.” Roxas mutters, earning another flick to the temple. “Aright. I’m sorry.”

His father hum with disproval but turns and heads back to his lane. “Come on. We still have half an hour left in our rental time.”

* * *

Axel’s face is still heated, his teeth still grit as Saix continues to push him out of the gun range, despite the red head digging his heels into the concrete.

“Alright. _Alright_ , Saix. Enough!”

But his friend continues to shove him all the way towards their cars parked parallel in the range’s lot. By now the parking lot lights are shining, buzzing dully while the last light of the sun is disappearing beyond the horizon.

“You goddamn idiot!” Saix growls with a heavy shove. Axel tumbles back into his car, careful the rifle case doesn’t dent the door.

“What?”

“Do you have _any_ idea who that was?!”

“I was just trying to make conversation.” Axel defends. He walks around towards the trunk of his car.

“Oh please, I saw the way you were looking at that blonde.” Saix smirks as he crosses his arms. “And I saw the way he was looking _down_ at you. An admirable talent. One of many he has trained well.”

Axel grins himself despite the jab. “Pretty good-looking, right? Wonder how old he is.”

He pops the trunks and lays the case inside, securing it towards the back before shutting it.

“It doesn’t matter, because you’re never going to see him.”

Axel snorts. He walks around towards the driver’s side of his car, Saix leaning against meeting him in the middle, putting him by his own passenger door. “Why? Because _you_ forbid me?”

“No, because his dad will shoot your hollowed head off before you even get the chance to _look_ at his son . . . again.”

“What are you talking about –”

“That man, that kid’s father, is none other than Nicholas O’Niell! You know, the _heavily_ decorated sniper veteran, graduated top of his class, and declared one of the deadliest men _alive_! His kill sheet is longer than the tracks of Central Station.”

Axel can feel the color leech from his face – the realization making him break into a cold sweat.

“Yeah, and you just made _googly eyes_ at his _son_ , while making yourself look like an ass for betting against him through your impulsive undermining.”

Despite himself, Axel tucks his hands into his pockets. He leans further into the driver door. “You know, sometimes, you’re negative.”

Saix rolls his eyes with another snarl. “And _you_ can be such an infuriating _asshole_. And don’t even think about pursuing that kid. Apart from avoiding putting yourself on a government watch list, I doubt either of those two are going to bother giving you the time of day after today.”

His friend finally rounds his car towards his driver’s side, Axel opening his own door.

“Who said I was even thinking about pursuing him?”

“Uh, you did, and so did your eyes the way they lingered on his body. But don’t hold your breath. Kid is way out of your league.”

Axel grinds his teeth. “Hey, he’s probably only what, eighteen?”

“Still cooler than you by a ten-mile league. He’d probably kick your ass just for talking to him again, and then after that, his dad is going to dissect your brain – if they can ever find it.”

Axel sneers as he steps into his car, putting the key in and starting the engine. “Remind me why I hang out with you.”

“Because I’m the only one whose kept you out of trouble since middle school.”

An agreeing, if bitter, nod of agreement.

“Not like it matters, either way. Not like I’m ever going to see him again.”

From his left, he can hear Saix open his door and get in his car. “Let’s hope.”

Axel looks out and calls to his friend. “Thanks for coming out today. I’ll see you later.”

A smile in return. “You too, man. Stay out of trouble.”

A breath of a laugh. “Yeah.”

The two of them start their cars, Axel letting the heat roar as autumn’s chill begins to settle over the town. He lets Saix leave first, the gleaming black car’s headlights blazing as he circles and exits the lot.

Axel follows shortly after, switching to one of his CD’s to help take the edge off of tonight. A sensible man would’ve gone right back in there and apologize, but apart from his own pride keeping him planted in his car’s leather seat, what good would it do? what could he say that would ever make up for the sheer stupidity he displayed? He doesn’t even think he _could_ make it up to either of them.

He doesn’t know what he’d do if he had to face more of those passive-aggressive comments from the kid.

God, he was pretty gorgeous. But it wasn’t the body or the shining gold hair that had his attention snagged.

It was those eyes – a stunning sapphire blue set ablaze with a ring of gold around the pupil. Axel doesn’t know if it was the lights of the shooting range, but the way that gold seemed to glitter. No – the way it seemed to shine; seem to blaze as if the kid has his own inner fire.

Eyes of wildfire. It wasn’t like anything Axel had ever said.

And then just watching him shoot that rifle, the way he stepped up to his challenge . . .

And if he’s being honest, the way he looks down at people that are near twice his size is pretty hot.

 _Kid is way out of your league_.

Axel huffs a sigh as he comes to a red light. No doubt that kid knows how to fight, hell he might even know how to kill – if his demonstration of the rifle was any indication. And while a part of him is in admiration, there’s another . . . another part of him that wonders just out young that kid started training. There had to have been moments when it wasn’t easy.

 _None of your business_ , he can almost hear Saix sneer in his mind.

Another aggravated sigh as the light turns green. For the rest of the ride home, he turns the volume up until the entire foundation of his car is vibrating with the bass of the song, rumbling through his mind in an attempt to drown out those eyes of wildfire.


End file.
